Luck
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: Everyone's luck runs out eventually. And on the battlefield of Char, Koiter was no exception.


**Luck**

"You know, for a rebel and a terrorist, you're not all that bad."

The Dominion marine means it as a compliment, but M. Koiter can't help but feel miffed at it. It's a bit rich to use "rebel" as a derogatory term considering that the Dominion was forged in the fires of rebellion (and genocide). And considering that Raynor's Raiders have never gone after a civilian target in their history, despite what propaganda says, he can't strictly be called a terrorist either. Still, since compliments are inherently preferable to slurs about parentage, he decides to take it in his stride.

Besides, he's got the zerg to focus on.

Luck has kept him alive so far, Koiter knows it. With the critters charging the thin red line defending the forward base, punctuated by the occasional piece of blue that refuses to merge and become purple, it's really a case of luck. A rogue spine there, a blast of acid taking out x by y metres of defences at point z...Luck has kept him alive and he hopes that luck is on Raynor's side also. Hell, he'll need it if he's going to take out the nydus network.

"Get some!" some resoc yells, unable to think of anything more creative as more zerglings come forward. "Come get some!"

Rolling his eyes, Koiter ducks down into the trench to reload his rifle, mercifully only hearing the sound of decapitation as a hydralisk puts some of the "some" as it was called, back into the _some_one who was giving out "some." Kind of a repeated adjective (or noun, whatever) but that's all this is, repetition. So with the timed and tested tradition of being decapitated having come and gone, the tradition of marines pouring fire into the monster from all across the trench is carried out as well.

And, in another tradition being repeated, when the shit starts hitting the fan, diarrhoea is fated to follow.

One breach. One simple breach of the trench is all that it takes for the zerg to exploit the temporary diversion of firepower. Getting to his feet, Koiter sees a volley of spines shoot by him, impaling a poor sucker that was standing next to him. And while his subconscious mind prompts him to throw a frag grenade into the approaching horde, the rebel's conscious mind is filled with only one thing-_that could have been me. _Shoulder to shoulder, former enemies united and it's through sheer luck that he wasn't the one with a hole in his visor. And even as ichor saturates the ground in front of him, Koiter can't help but wonder how long his luck will last.

Given the amount of critters still closing in on the trench, probably not very long.

If one moves on from adjectives and nouns to metaphors, it's clear that for all their firepower, humans are like glass cannons. Yes, they're perfectly capable of blasting away and mowing down enemies with applied firepower. But once the enemy gets close enough to inflict damage in return, that's when problems come up. And seeing a pack of zerglings coming in from his left, Koiter witnesses this firsthand. He raises his rifle, only for the critters to pounce on him before he can open fire. And while he quickly opens fire with his slugthrower, it's simply too little too late to avail him against the horde. The Reaper who has just landed in the trench and dispatched every one of those critters who was swarming him is a different story.

"Fear the Reaper man," he rasps, sliding in new clips. "Fear the Reaper..."

_Great..._Koiter thinks. _I've been saved by a psycho. _

Well, sort of saved. Because with said Reaper suddenly being cleaved in two by an angry hydralisk, it remained to be seen whether the Raider had been saved at all. Something told him he hadn't.

Part of him wants to run. Part of him wants to test his suit's waste disposal systems. Yet part of him, remembering the planet displayed on his dog tags, wants to stand and fight. To stop relying on luck and test that of the zerg. So, picking up his gauss rifle and opening fire, Koiter proceeds to do just that.

And in an instant, as a spike pierces his visor, his luck runs out.


End file.
